CHAPTER I.

A REJECTED BRIDEGROOM.

He’ll be forgotten—like old debts By persons who are used to borrow; Forgotten—like the sun that sets, When shines the new one on the morrow; Forgotten like the luscious peach That blessed the school-boy last September; Forgotten—like the maiden speech, That all men praise and none remember. PRAED.

“I am not, I never was, and never can be, the betrothed of Mr. Brandon Coyle; therefore there can be no marriage ceremony performed now, or ever, between that person and myself.”

These words fell with a stupefying effect upon the ears of the assembled company.

“Have we heard aright?” they asked themselves.

“Oh, she is mad!” muttered Brandon Coyle, recovering his speech, of which the shock had momentarily deprived him. “Her head is turned! Her words are false as reckless upon the very face of them! The whole neighborhood knows of our betrothal, indorsed by her grandfather!”

“_My dear!_” said Lord Beaudevere, in a low tone of surprise, pain and expostulation, while all the company except Net Fleming looked on in wonder as to what they had heard and seen, and what was to be expected further.

Brandon Coyle, his lips grimly shut, his face pale, and his eyes on fire, strode up to the table and fixed his gaze upon the face of the young lady, as if in his madness he fancied that his look could quell her.

But she would not meet his eyes. She kept hers fixed on the table, while she resumed her speech:

“You are all surprised and incredulous; but I will explain and convince you. At the time Mr. Brandon Coyle asked my hand of my grandfather, the late earl, he was not free to contract marriage. Neither my grandfather nor myself knew this fact at the time. My grandfather died in ignorance of it. I have only known it for a very few days.”

“IT IS FALSE!! It is false as——!!! Some enemy has abused this lady’s ear with a base slander!” burst forth Brandon Coyle in a fury, as he struck his clenched hand down upon the table.

“This is very painful! Very painful indeed! This is a serious charge to bring against your affianced husband, the man once accepted by yourself, and approved by your grandfather, my dear,” said Lord Beaudevere, in a tone of remonstrance.

“I do not pretend to know what she means by it!” exclaimed Coyle, in a voice full of affected sorrow.

“What reason have you for your words, my daughter?” inquired the priest.

“If there be any grounds for this charge, Lady Arielle,” said the lawyer, in slow and measured syllables, “your friends would like to hear them.”

“He was married on the ninth of last September to a young woman named Christelle Ken, of the village of Miston—”

“It is as false as——!!!” exclaimed Coyle, losing all self-control, and falling into bad language.

“Brandon! Brandon! recollect yourself, my _dear_ boy! Arielle, my child, this is a very extraordinary charge!” said the baron, who was beginning to be very much distressed and perplexed.

“I can _prove_ the charge, Lord Beaudevere. This letter was written to me by his wife. I received it on the day that my dear grandfather was attacked with his last and fatal sickness. Inclosed you will find the marriage certificate. Will you pass both to Mr. Brandon Coyle and let him examine them, and decide whether he will leave me now in peace, or whether he will compel me to a further exposure of his evil deeds?”

Lord Beaudevere took the letter and handed it to Coyle, who received it with a scowl.

“A forgery! A falsehood! An impudent imposition!” he exclaimed, as soon as he had glanced at the contents; and he tore it fiercely into pieces and threw it upon the floor.

Lord Beaudevere then handed him the marriage “lines” of poor Kit.

“Why do you insult me with this thing? A farce!” he exclaimed, as he seized and tore the second paper.

“Gentlemen,” he continued, more calmly, “these are miserable tricks of some enemy bent on injuring me and annoying my promised bride. And but that they _have_ disturbed Lady Arielle, they would be beneath contempt. Surely you need not regard such base trifles?”

“Where did you get these papers, my dear?” inquired Lord Beaudevere.

“One moment, my lord. I wish to ask that person if he really pretends to hold me to any engagement.”

“Most certainly I do,” distinctly answered Coyle.

“And to deny the authenticity of these documents?”

“Assuredly I do!”

“Then you compel me to prove their authenticity by exposing you more fully,” said Lady Arielle; and turning her head to where Net stood vailed, she asked:

“Mrs. Fleming, will you come here to my support?”

Net left her seat, walked around the table and stood at the back of Arielle’s chair, with one hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Question Mrs. Fleming, my lord. I do not think she will like to tell the story except in answer to questions,” said Arielle.

At the sight of Net, Brandon Coyle had staggered back and dropped upon a seat, with every vestige of color drained from his dark face.

“My dear, do you really know anything certain about this strange story that has been brought to Lady Arielle? Is there a shadow of truth in it?” inquired Lord Beaudevere, still incredulous and bewildered.

“Mrs. Fleming is my bitter enemy. Her testimony should not be taken against me!” exclaimed Brandon Coyle, madly.

“I am no man’s enemy, and so little yours that I am pained that justice obliges me to speak of you as I must do,” said Net, gently.

Then turning to Lord Beaudevere she answered him, saying:

“I know this much—that Mr. Brandon Coyle is either legally married to Christelle Ken, the daughter of James Ken, the fisherman, of Miston, or else he has deceived her by a false marriage. Yes, Lord Beaudevere, this is absolutely true. I could tell you much more to the point if necessary, but the subject is a painful one. Besides, I do not think Mr. Brandon Coyle will deny the facts to _me_, to whom he promised ten days ago that in one week from that date he would do justice to the girl by acknowledging her as his wife.”

While Net spoke, Brandon Coyle sat shaking with rage and fear as with an ague. His castles in the air were tumbling all around him, and threatening even to crush him under their ruins.

“Where is this girl, my dear?” mildly inquired the distressed baron.

“_Ay! where is she?_” fiercely demanded Brandon Coyle. “Produce her! If she is my wife, let her come forward and face me with the claim! _Where is she?_”

“Where is she, my dear Mrs. Fleming?” inquired the baron.

“Mr. Brandon Coyle is most probably the only person here who can answer that question; for, on the very night before the day upon which he had promised to acknowledge her, she disappeared from my house, and has not been heard of since. Her parents are in the deepest distress at her strange absence. Mr. Brandon Coyle probably knows her whereabouts,” gravely answered Net.

“I know nothing about the infernal girl!” frantically exclaimed Coyle. “It is a base conspiracy to ruin me!”

Here old Mr. Coyle arose to his feet and advanced until he stood face to face with his nephew, when—wiping his round, close-cropped, silver-gray head until it shone like a metallic ball, as was his custom when heated or excited—he burst forth with a torrent of indignation:

“Conspiracy or _not_ conspiracy, sir, I charge you to disprove these accusations before you ever dare to set foot in my house again! If they are true, sir—if they are true, by—” (here the old squire sealed his earnestness with an oath not to be recorded)—“I will bequeath Caveland and all my money to found an asylum for unconvicted _thieves_ and _cut-throats_ before I will leave you one shilling!”

“You are all against me!” fiercely exclaimed Coyle, with the aspect of a hyena at bay.

“You evil son of an evil father, acquit yourself of this charge, or never look me in the face again!” exclaimed Old Coyle, turning away, and trotting back to his seat.

Net, feeling somehow as if she were a witness subpœnaed on a trial in a court of justice, said:

“Nothing, indeed, but the strongest conviction of duty would cause me to make the disclosures I am about to do. Mr. Brandon Coyle has said that he would not know Kit Ken if she were now to enter this room. Yet, I myself have seen Mr. Brandon Coyle in the company of Kit Ken, under circumstances that convinced me that he was her lover.

“It was on the night of November the twenty-first, long after midnight and near morning, when I was awakened out of sleep by the noise of something falling. Thinking nothing worse had happened than that our cat had knocked some of the crockery down off the dresser, I arose, lighted a candle, and went into the kitchen, where I found Mr. Brandon Coyle.”

The old squire groaned aloud and suppressed an oath.

“Bah!” exclaimed Coyle, defiantly. “I explained to Mrs. Fleming, at the time, how it was! I had arrived from London by the midnight train; taking the short cut from Miston to Caveland, had come down the church lane, passing Bird’s Nest Cottage, saw that the careless inmates—women and children, don’t you know—had left the door open all night, went in through the darkness to the kitchen to call the negligent servant to remedy the mistake, and—fell over the coal-scuttle! The noise aroused the lady of the house, who came forth, and finding me standing in the middle of the kitchen caressing my aggrieved shin, immediately accused me of—the fiend knows what! Coming after the silver spoons, I think, was the first form of the indictment! Of course, as I said before, I explained the good intention that had brought me to the house; but she would not believe me! She does not believe me now even though she must have found her silver plate all right,” he added, in a tone of assumed jollity and recklessness.

No one, however, paid any serious attention to his words; but Dr. Bennet requested Mrs. Fleming to proceed.

Net resumed her account of the night’s alarm:

“On my demanding of the intruder the meaning of his presence in my house at such an unseemly hour, he did, indeed, attempt such an explanation as he has offered here; but I knew his excuse to be false on the very face of it, and told him so. I suspected, also, his real errand, and told him that; I then demanded that he should give me his solemn promise never to approach my premises again, and never to see or speak to Kit Ken again, unless it was to make her his wife.”

“And what did the vagabond say to that?” demanded the old squire.

“He asked me what would be the consequence of his refusal to comply with such absurd demands. I told him that I should go the next day and lay the whole case before Mr. Coyle, of Caveland, and claim from him, both as the uncle of the delinquent and as Justice of the Peace for the neighborhood, protection for myself and household against the aggressions of Mr. Brandon Coyle.”

“And you should have had it, my dear! You should have had it! I would have committed the scamp to the county jail if he had been twenty nephews rolled into one! Why didn’t you come and complain to me, my dear? Why didn’t you?”

“Because,” said Net, “the man promised all that I demanded. He promised to acknowledge Kit his lawful wife within a week from that day, and under that promise he was permitted to leave my house in peace.”

“And he _did_ marry her?”

“He had married her long before that, or he had pretended to do so. The poor girl, who had some pride in her good name, and could not endure to lie under suspicion, confessed to me that morning her secret marriage to Mr. Brandon Coyle on the night of September ninth, the night of the day of my dear step-father’s funeral. I remember missing her that night and receiving a lame excuse for her unusual absence. She showed me a paper that she called her ‘wedding lines’—a sort of irregular certificate of marriage—the same paper that Mr. Brandon Coyle has destroyed. She also gave me many details that would have convinced any candid mind of her truth. She evidently, confidently believed herself to be the lawful wife of Mr. Brandon Coyle.”

“She believed nothing of the sort! She imposed on you, madame, by a tissue of artful falsehoods which your own imagination has unfortunately for truth, very much embellished!” rudely exclaimed Brandon Coyle.

“HOLD YOUR TONGUE, SIR!” vociferated the old squire, beside himself with rage and shame. “Can you not see that your cause is gone? Can you not see that not a man nor woman present believes one word you have to say? Why do you not leave the room and the house? How long do you intend to stand there heaping disgrace upon yourself and all connected with you? Leave! Begone! For decency’s sake, go hang yourself!”

“Indeed, I think you had better withdraw, Mr. Brandon,” said Lord Beaudevere, in a low tone.

“You are all against me! Every one of you! You are all my enemies! I am basely slandered! Foully maligned! And you believe and indorse my slanderers and maligners, or you _pretend_ to do so, because you are all my bitter enemies! I have not a friend in this house to do me justice!” fiercely exclaimed the desperate villain, and like a wild beast driven to frenzy, he turned to rush from the room.

In an instant Aspirita Coyle, who had been a silent but angry spectator of the scene arose and darted to her brother’s side, exclaiming:

“Yes, Brandon! _I_ am your friend! Your sister! If our friends here abandon you, they must abandon me too! If our uncle discards you, he shall lose me also! I will never re-enter the doors that refuse to receive you! I will go with you, my brother, and share your fate!”

She had poured forth all these words with impetuous passion, and now she caught his arm and turned around, facing the company with eyes blazing defiance.

“DROP THAT MAN’S ARM INSTANTLY, MISS COYLE!” thundered the old squire.

“I won’t! He is my dear brother!”

“Go, my dear girl. Would you cling to a fallen pillar?” whispered Brandon, who seemed deeply touched by her fidelity at this time.

“Yes, I would. Since it is my brother! The only one I really love on earth!” replied the girl.

“OBEY ME, MISS COYLE! Return to your seat this moment!” roared the old squire.

“I—will—not!” replied Aspirita, slowly and emphatically.

“Go, go, my sister!” urged the young man.

“I’ll see him—_burnt_ first! There!” said Aspirita.

“COME HERE THIS INSTANT, MISS COYLE! You are my niece!—my ward! You must submit to me!” cried the old squire, leaving his seat.

“I tell you I won’t! What is the use of your roaring?” retorted the girl. “Come, Brandon! Why are we lingering here? Let us leave the room!” she added, turning to her brother.

“Aspirita! You would but embarrass me by your presence. Dear child, I feel your devotion! It is a great comfort to me to find _one_ heart faithful to mine in adversity! And when I have a home I will send for you to share it; but until that time you would but embarrass me! Go, dear! Go,” whispered the young man, in eager, hurried tones.

But still she clung to him, while old Coyle chafed and sputtered, and began to look dangerous.

“Aspirita,” hastily whispered Brandon, “for the next few days I shall have no fixed home. I go to hunt up evidence to vindicate my honor. And I go—_to avenge myself upon my enemies_!” he added, in a hissing tone, as his white teeth gleamed like a tiger’s under his bushy black mustache.

“I will not be disgraced by both of you at the same time. If you do not obey me, and leave that villain’s side instantly, Miss Coyle, I will find means to compel you to do so!” thundered the exasperated old squire, trotting towards the brother and sister, with his round face in a flame, and short, fat arm raised threateningly.

“Go! go! _Pray_ go!” hastily whispered Brandon.

“ONCE MORE! For the last time! Will you obey me?” vociferated the old man, standing before them with doubled fist.

“I will obey _my brother_. He tells me to go with you, and I will go. And when he shall tell me to leave you and return to him—I will do so. _I am of age_—a fact which you seem to have forgotten—and I am at liberty to do as I please. Good-bye, my dear brother! I hope soon to see you victorious over all your enemies,” said Aspirita.

Brandon Coyle folded her in his arms for a moment, then released her, and with a profound, mocking bow to the assembled company, turned and left the room.

“Be good enough to see if my carriage waits,” said the old man then to Adams, the footman, who stood with the other servants near the door, and who immediately left to obey the order.

Lady Arielle, now suffering from the reaction of excitement, pale and trembling, yet self-possessed and courteous, heard this order given and immediately walked down to the side of old Mr. Coyle and said:

“Will you not gratify your friends by remaining to dinner? It will be served in a few minutes.”

“I couldn’t eat a morsel if it was to save my life! Could you?” roughly replied the old man.

“We have already dined—‘full of horrors’—Lady Altofaire,” said Aspirita Coyle, with freezing politeness.

“No one can regret and _deplore_ the pain I have been compelled to give more than I do myself,” said Lady Arielle, with feeling.

“You could not help it, my lady! You could not help it! You must not regret or deplore anything that has happened! You should thank Heaven to be rid of the scamp on any terms!” exclaimed old Mr. Coyle.

“I think it is mean and cruel for a man’s own relation to turn against him!” exclaimed Aspirita.

“I disclaim him as a relation. He is not a Coyle at all! He is the son of his father,” said the old squire, bitterly. “They have both caused me grief and shame enough in my time! And _you_, Aspirita, had best keep silence on this subject! I advise you!”

The girl, hanging on his arm, turned as pale as her dark skin would permit, and became mute.

“Mr. Coyle’s carriage waits,” said the footman, opening the door.

“Ah! All right! Good afternoon, Lady Altofaire,” said the old squire, with a bow, as he turned and led off his niece, who merely nodded to the young countess in leaving.

When the Coyles had gone, Lord Beaudevere rapped on the table, as if to call the little company to order, and then said:

“It is the desire of the Countess of Altofaire that the subjects just discussed in this room be not talked of to any one beyond these walls. Of the reticence of her friends she feels the fullest confidence. And of the people of her household she hopes the same discreet silence. The servants may now withdraw.”

In obedience to this direction, the domestics, who had been called together to listen to the reading of the late lord’s will, now retired—each one satisfied with, and grateful for, the legacy that had been left to him or to her, and resolved to be silent upon the subject of the sensational revelations that had been made that day, and had broken off the marriage engagement between their young lady and Mr. Brandon Coyle.

But, oh! the strong, overwhelming temptation to tell such a stunning story!

The men really resisted the temptation and kept the faith from first to last.

And the women kept the secret for a few hours; but then the cook, under an extorted promise of profound secrecy, told it to the pretty dairymaid, Hannah Horner, as a solemn warning to beware of young men who were above her in rank, for fear she might be taken in by a false marriage and spirited away like poor Kit Ken.

And the dairymaid, with mouth and eyes wide open with wonder and dismay, told the whole story to her mother, old Dame Horner, at the porter’s, when she went home—for should a girl keep a secret from her own mother?

Dame Horner, who was required to make no promise on the subject, button-holed and half paralyzed the postman with the story the very first time he came through the gate.

And the postman told the tale all over the country, wherever he stopped to deliver or to gather letters.

Thus, in a few hours, the luckless love story of poor Kit Ken had reached even to the ears of her parents and brothers! And the rough men of the family were out on the war-path after Brandon Coyle.

But to return to the great dining-hall where the late earl’s will had been read, and the startling revelations had been made.

Soon after the withdrawal of the servants dinner was announced, and the company, reduced now to seven persons, adjourned to the small dining-room, where the table had been laid, and where every one, excepting Arielle, really enjoyed the courses set before them.

Soon after dinner Arielle and Net found themselves alone for a few moments, and the former said:

“I have been wanting to ask you, all day, whether you have heard from Antoinette since I saw you last.”

“Yes, I had a letter this morning just before I left home. She has gone down to Deloraine Park to spend the winter. She thinks the quietness of the country and the mild air will do her good. She wants me to join her there,” replied Net.

“But you will not go?”

“Not at present,” said Net.

An hour later the friends were all assembled in the drawing-room, where, after drinking tea, the guests were preparing to depart.

Net Fleming went up to Lady Arielle to bid her good-night.

“Must you go? Oh, must you go so soon?” inquired the young countess, in a sorrowful tone.

“Yes, dear; you know I came with Dr. Bennet. He was kind enough to drive me here in his gig. He is going now; he has some patients to see this evening, and I must go home when he goes.”

“But why return at all to-night? Why can’t you stay with me for a few days? Oh! I need you so much, Net.”

“Dear friend, I would be so willing to do so, but I cannot leave the children. There is no one that I dare trust them to since poor Kit has gone,” gently replied Net.

“Bring them here!” quickly exclaimed the lady. “Oh, Net! close up the cottage, and send home your servant, and come and bring the children with you, and stay—stay as long as ever you can—stay always, or at least until Mr. Adrian Fleming returns to take you home. Oh! _do_, Net. Say you will.”

“But, my dear, shall you remain at the castle? Shall you not go to the house of your guardian, Lord Beaudevere?” inquired Net, as she drew on her black gloves.

“To Cloudland? Oh, no, no, no! Why, _he_ is expected back in a few days—”

“Valdimir Desparde!” exclaimed Net, in astonishment.

“Yes. I did not tell you when I was at the Bird’s Nest, I could not bear to speak of him. And I cannot go to Cloudland, where I may meet him.”

“Why—when—how did you hear this?” questioned Net, in wonder.

“A letter from him to Lord Beaudevere, announcing his return to—to vindicate himself. There! do not let us speak of him!”

“But if he can vindicate himself, surely you will be glad to see him, dear Arielle?” said Net.

“Hush! How _can_ he do so? His wife and child have passed from this world! Thus he is free to come back. This is his vindication! Bah! let us drop the subject! I cannot go to Cloudland; that is certain! You must come, and bring the children and stay with me here, Net.”

“But children might be troublesome to you, my dear.”

“What nonsense! If they should be, I could put them in a pleasant suite of apartments, half a mile away from me, in this big house! But they will not trouble me the least! Little children never do: they always cheer and comfort me! Bring them, Net. When will you bring them? When shall I send old Abraham with the old family coach for you? To-morrow? Next day? When, Net?”

“It is not very polite to interrupt a conversation between friends but, my dear Mrs. Fleming, unless we set out very soon night will overtake us before we get through the mountain passes,” said Dr. Bennet, coming up.

“Good-night, dear Arielle,” murmured Net, stooping to kiss the young hostess.

“But you have not told me, when I shall send the family coach for you and the children! You shall not go until you tell me!” exclaimed the latter, clasping her friend’s hand.

“On—on Saturday—Saturday afternoon,” answered Net, hurriedly, as she once more kissed her hostess good-night, and left her to make other hasty adieux, not to keep her escort waiting.

“Mind! be ready to come on Saturday. I shall be sure to send the carriage with orders to bring you and the children back if it has to wait all day and all night too!” said Lady Arielle, following Net to the door.

“I will be ready, dear! Good-night,” said Net, as she disappeared.

The family solicitor also took leave, and departed in his hired cab to catch the midnight express for London.

The old priest pleaded his age and infirmities and retired to his den; Lord Beaudevere and Vivienne remained in the castle over night.

And soon after the friends retired to rest.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]